The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) Read Free Page B

unconscious.’ His brow furrowed. ‘And you’ve never said why you wouldn’t see them.’
    Memories. Sympathy. Ye gods.
    He stared out of the window again, watching the river with its willows. Once he had seen the blue flash of a kingfisher there. A kingfisher summer...
    How did he get in here to see me? ...The white whale, of course. What was it? Like a lawyer. Ah, the trappings of respectability. Poor old Hugh.
    ‘You know, sir, this may sound fucking stupid, but you’re getting bloody quiet these days. You used to say more with that notebook than you do now you’ve got your voice back.’ Doody was looking at him keenly, one hand clutching a forgotten bunch of linen pillowcases. Riven met his eyes.
    ‘Well, Dood, you know what it is, don’t you?’ he asked sadly.
    Doody shook his head.
    ‘It’s alcohol withdrawal symptoms, you soft git.’
    ‘Ah!’ Doody nodded sagely, then went out, pushing his trolley in front of him. ‘Now you’re coming off the drugs, I’ll have to see if I can organise the proper medicine, Mr Riven, sir...’

TWO
     
     
    T HE B EECHFIELD C ENTRE was a nursing home for those who preferred to be nursed in private. While not being what could be termed as ‘exclusive,’ it nevertheless tried to cultivate a certain calibre of clientele. One of its prime aims in life seemed to be to prepare members of the older, more privileged generation for the rigours of retirement. Thus, arthritis, rheumatism and wandering wits were high on the list of maladies encountered within its white walls. Riven was an anomaly in the system, but he had been welcomed at the centre nonetheless. He had something of a name in ‘literature’; he had written two fantasy novels that had done quite well, earning him a modest income which sufficed—just—to keep him, with only a few odd jobs to supplement it. His parents had always wanted him to get a ‘proper’ job, and though they had not been ecstatic, to say the least, about the army, at least it was that. But Riven had left the army as a lieutenant, deciding he had seen enough. It was not to be missed, but it was not for life, either. Still, he would always be proud of having been a soldier; it had fulfilled one childhood ambition, and had given him time to think.
    The trustees of the Beechfield Centre were glad to have him, eccentric though some of his behaviour appeared. The fact that he refused to see visitors, for instance, or that he would not communicate in any way with certain of the staff. But there was the double tragedy of his dead wife and his terrible injuries to think about. They made allowances for him, as long as his insurance paid for him to be there.
    The consultant, Doctor Lynam, dropped in often, in his smiling, pleasant way. He was the sort who smokes a pipe with consummate incompetence, but who sticks to it manfully, knowing that it will be conquered by the time he has retired to his house in the Cotswolds. He gave the patients the same kind of absentminded affection he gave to his dog, which did not make him a bad doctor, but which made those under his care think uneasily that by troubling him with their ailments, they were interrupting the gracious, even flow of his life.
    There were two nurses: Nurse Bisbee and Nurse Cohen. Bisbee was a relic from a Victorian schoolroom, benevolent as a South American dictator. Her face resembled a large pink crag, with the hair pulled back from it so tightly that Riven half believed when it was loosed her face would bunch up like a bloodhound’s.
    Nurse Cohen, on the other hand, was young and slight, with mischievous eyes and dark hair which it sometimes hurt Riven to look at.
    There were several auxiliaries also, as well as a small kitchen staff. Doody combined the jobs of porter and nursing assistant, and sometimes helped out in the kitchen as well. No one seemed to know exactly what his job was.
    When he was a nineteen-year-old corporal in the Buffs, he had chosen premature voluntary retirement